From behind my tree, I observed Krueger as he crawled fifteen or twenty feet to my right front. He actually reached down into a foxhole, grabbed a German, and pulled him out. He motioned the prisoner to the rear, and both of them crawled back to our skirmish line. The German didn’t stop. Instead, he crawled another twenty feet and stopped to help our medic bandage one of our wounded. Very shortly thereafter, he was killed by German fire.
I glanced to my right rear and saw Colonel Vandervoort, our battalion commander, approaching my position. Our dead and wounded were lying all around us, hit only moments earlier. We pleaded with the CO not to expose himself to the heavy fire, but he continued until he reached my position. He looked at me and calmly said, “Sergeant, I think you better go see if you can get that tank moving.”
I asked him again to take cover, then I jumped up and ran to the tank. I took off my helmet and beat on the turret. Finally, the hatch cracked open six inches. I hollered to the tank commander, relating the colonel’s order to move forward and continue firing. We talked a minute or two, and I pointed out targets. While I was showing him where he should shoot, I had to remain standing. Finally the tank lumbered forward, and I gave arm and hand signals to what was left of my squad to get up and start moving.
We moved forward, still in a rough skirmish line, until we came across barbed wire running mid-width of the park. It wasn’t laid heavily, but we wanted the tank to move through to make a path. Instead, it advanced a little to our left front. We went to the right, and had a real time getting through the wire. Neipling, with a shortened belt of ammo, was actually firing his light .30-caliber machine gun from the standing position as he moved through the wire. Then there was a little Greek from the 1st Platoon, George Pagalotis, a bazooka man whose bazooka was almost as long as he was tall. He ran right up to a fortification dug into a bank by the Valkhof and fired a round directly into the opening. I think someone from the 1st Platoon got the tank’s attention and moved it over to the bank, where it fired rounds into the fortification from five to six feet away. Talk about direct, point-blank fire!
My squad was the first to break through to the east side of the park. When we got on the east side of the barbed wire, we dropped into a well constructed, World War I-type trench the Germans had dug. From here we had a good view that overlooked the approach road, the entrance to the bridge and the bridge itself. I heard some shouted commands from my distant left rear that I later learned was British infantry moving up by the numbers.
As we dropped into the trench, groups of Germans started to withdraw across the bridge, taking cover behind the girders. This was a bad move. We had seized the high ground overlooking the bridge and had a perfect view. As soon as they dashed to the next girder, we had them. There were thirty or so to start, but I don’t believe a single one got across.
Right after, another group of Germans came from our left. This group was pretty smart. They rushed up the left side of the bank all together, went over the top, across the road, and down on the right side of the road that led to the bridge. There was a large drop-off on the east side of the road, and so they gained the cover of the roadbed. They took us by surprise and got away with it.
I took two or three people and scrambled down the bank and onto the road. I thought we could get some good shooting by going over to the berm and looking down, but the Germans had anticipated our movement and barraged us with grenades. Rather than risk death or serious injury, I withdrew to the trench with the men I had taken.
Shortly, off to our far front along the open south bank of the river, we saw a German running through a plowed field with little cover or concealment. He was at great range, eight hundred to a thousand yards away, but our visibility was excellent, so a couple of us fired a shot at him. He continued plowing through the field. Then Neipling got onto him with two or three bursts of his machine gun. The German fell and never moved again.
As I look back on the battle in Nijmegen, for the life of me I cannot remember who was in command of the company after we took the park. To my knowledge, no officer came forward immediately after Lieutenant Holcomb was wounded in the assault. Later that night or early the next morning, a first lieutenant may have come to the company and assumed command. I heard from one of my friends in the 2d Platoon, Corporal Rosen, that a senior officer had approached him after the assault and told him to take command of the remains of the company. When I looked around me at the far end of the park, it appeared to me that I was the senior person. I’m not saying that I took command of the whole company. I’m just saying that after the assault very few authoritative voices were heard on the east side of the park.
The 2d Battalion, 505, received a Presidential Unit Citation for the action in Nijmegen on September 19 and 20, 1944, along with the 3d Battalion, 504. I received the Silver Star for action in the park. All the Company F officers who were anywhere near the heat of the battle became casualties, so I’ve often wondered who submitted the request for the award. I think it may have been Colonel Vandervoort, but I never did find out.
Chapter 22
Aftermath: Hunner Park and Bridge Security
Our final assault on Hunner Park was over in less than half an hour. Despite disastrous casualties, we took the park and the southern end of the traffic bridge. Meanwhile, the 3d Battalion, 504 PIR, led by Maj Julian Cook, made a river crossing in assault boats about a mile downstream from the Nijmegen railroad bridge in order to seize the railroad and traffic bridges at the northern end. It was an extremely dangerous mission. At that point, the Waal was four hundred yards wide. Crossing in plywood-bottom boats with canvas sides, they actually assaulted in broad daylight against heavy, close-range machine gun and mortar fire—and were successful. They then pushed on for the highway bridge. Major Cook compared his battalion’s actions to making an Omaha Beach-type landing all by themselves.5
The British were losing their area across the Lower Rhine at Arnhem, fighting in circumstances so tough that they were almost decimated. Although we had no idea of any of this down at my level, the 101st Airborne Division, too, was having a very rough time securing the long corridor to our rear, which formed the single axis of advance. Their success was essential to the British Second Army and the British XXX Corps, which planned to sweep up through the corridor to Nijmegen and on to Arnhem with heavy infantry divisions and armored forces. Even after September 17, the Germans successfully pierced the 101st defenses, because they were so spread out. Not for nothing did we call this corridor “Hell’s Highway.”
This enemy action took its toll on those of us to the north as well, because it stopped the flow of combat units and logistical support needed for the 82d, the British 1st Airborne, and whatever British armor had already preceded north. The Nijmegen highway bridge was absolutely crucial to keeping the corridor open, and everyone knew it was wired for demolition. We all expected to see the bridge go up in pieces. The only question was when.
Following our assault, I heard English accents to our left, and saw people in the area of the British Grenadier Guards on the left flank of our 1st Platoon. Word passed from the British troops that one of their officers was looking for volunteers to go to the bridge, climb the girders, and cut the demolition wires. I don’t think any of us volunteered. The request came before we had finished consolidating the park, and we had our hands full. There were still plenty of Germans to our left and left front, between the Valkhof and the underside of the bridge. Very soon thereafter, I heard long, sustained firing. Soon the word came down that the officer and all the volunteers had been killed. There was a lot of area between our left flank and the river. I don’t know if they even got as far as the bridge.
Our trench on the park bank gave us a view of the first Allied crossing to the northern side of the bridge. About fifty yards in front of us, parallel to our position, three tanks came down the main entrance road, very close together. The lead tank was about a hundred yards from the bridge when a German antitank gun took it under fire from across the r
iver. The 504 had evidently not yet secured the north end.
The road bank dropped sharply on both sides, so there was nowhere for the tanks to go except backwards or straight ahead. The tanker immediately returned fire, and a second tank fired across the river too. I don’t know if they even knew what they were shooting at. The lead commander started popping smoke grenades, and soon had four, or maybe six of them out in front of him. The tanks had to back up, and it was very precarious to get out of the line of fire. Very shortly afterwards, all three made another run and managed to cross, although they may still have been under some fire. This rounded off the success of the battle at Nijmegen, opening up the corridor to reinforce the British 1st Airborne at Arnhem.
We didn’t completely consolidate our position until dark. Some classic stories Company F loves to tell occurred about this time. There’s one about when little Sergeant Rhea was wounded. He was in the prone position, and Lloyd Ellingson, the 2d Platoon medic, was working on him. Rhea looked up over the medic’s shoulder and spied a figure approaching. Lying right there, flat on his back, he challenged the person. It turned out to be a German, who shot and killed Ellingson. The German didn’t get far before he, too, was killed. These are more examples of the useless deaths I spoke of earlier. If the German had given up, both he and Ellingson would have survived the battle. As it was, two out of three of our platoon medics were killed in Nijmegen: Ellingson and Vernon D. Carnes, the 1st Platoon medic, who was killed as he helped Lieutenant Dodd.
Another story concerns a soldier called K. B. Hungerford, who had been a sergeant in Company F, but was later transferred to Service Company, a non-combatant assignment. From what I understand, he was quite anxious about his old buddies in Company F, so he came up to the park to see what he could do. It’s said he volunteered to go to the bridge when the British officer came looking for help. Completely on his own, he left the safety of his non-combatant unit and was killed in action.
Other stories illustrate how deeply fatigued and worn out most of us were at the end of that battle, like the time I slept through an explosion. Things had quieted down a little, and we had gone on 50 percent alert. My squad was in a trench with a dugout. I was off alert, so I lay down in the dugout and went sound asleep. We hadn’t slept much in two or three days, and everyone was beat. I thought we had cleared the park, but while I was sleeping a mortar or grenade exploded almost on top of us. Mike Brilla, a member of the squad, was wounded and ended up losing an eye. This mortar went off just a few feet away from our trench, but I slept straight through it. The squad had to tell me when they woke me up that Mike had been evacuated.
The next morning, after daylight, we were all awake and on alert, taking turns disassembling, stripping, and cleaning our weapons. Up the bank, walking upright, came a German officer with his hands over his head. He wanted to surrender, but only to an officer. I don’t remember this story as clearly as Bill Hodge, a platoon member, does, but I know my rifle was in pieces when the German officer showed up. I pulled out my pistol ran down towards him and escorted him to the trench, his hands still over his head. He was wearing an Iron Cross, so I whipped out my trench knife. All I wanted was his decoration, but Hodge says that poor German was sure I was going to slit his throat. I cut the Iron Cross off his blouse and took it as a souvenir, and he seemed greatly relieved. So that’s how a lowly sergeant convinced a German officer to surrender by holding a trench knife to his throat. I still have the Iron Cross.
That day, September 21, the Polish 1st Independent Parachute Brigade dropped on the south bank of the Lower Rhine as reinforcements for the battle at Arnhem. Their planes flew almost on line over us in the park and continued north. Still well within our sight, they took serious anti-aircraft fire. It wasn’t as bad as the fire the gliders had encountered on the first evening in Normandy, but it was very heavy. Those paratroopers were obviously headed for extensive casualties.
I later learned that the planes carrying a third of Sosabowski’s 1,500 troops had turned back because of bad weather. Those that made it dropped on the south side of the river at Driel on last-minute DZs after the British were overrun at Arnhem. They never managed to get to Arnhem, but they did facilitate withdrawal for the survivors of the British 1st Airborne, which went into Arnhem with 10,005 men and came out with 2,163. Only 160 Poles came back across the Rhine with the survivors. We ourselves were picking up British paratroopers coming back to our lines in and around Nijmegen for weeks after September 20.
September 21 was also the day Company F got a new commander, 1stLt William F. Hayes. We moved to a position south of the park on the east side of Nijmegen for a day or less, then crossed to the north side of the river, where we stayed until September 24. It was a relatively quiet position. We may have gotten a few short artillery rounds aimed at the bridge, but we didn’t see much action.
We took over security for the Nijmegen highway bridge on September 24. The 1st Battalion stayed on the south end, and the 2d and 3d Battalions moved to the north side. The British had moved forward of our position, and we were more or less covering their right flank. Again, there was little action, but there was a lot of shrapnel from German artillery and a big railroad gun. I saw my first jet aircraft here, a German fighter. It was a sight to behold. We heard a loud noise in the sky, and looked up where we thought it was coming from, but by that time the doggoned plane was almost over the far horizon. We hadn’t even heard of jet airplanes yet. I don’t think the anti-aircraft guns came within two miles of the thing, and it was soon out of hearing.
The British took over safeguarding the bridge on September 30. They relieved us at midnight. We were to move back across the river the following day. That night, the Germans sent frogmen down the river to plant explosives around the bridge. Before daylight, they blew a portion of the highway bridge, and dropped a span of the railroad bridge into the river, temporarily putting it out of operation.
This was a pretty close call for us, but we were still on the north side of the river when the explosion took place. Traffic on the highway bridge never stopped altogether, but there were priorities for its use, and troop movement from north to south was not among them. We were moved back across the river in DUKWs, two-and-a-half-ton amphibious trucks primarily used on the beachheads. Coming back across the river, I thought about what a blow it was to come back in DUKWs, after losing so many men and shedding so much blood to take the damn bridges.
Everyone I knew in Company F was proud of the way we had carried out our mission. We had taken our objectives in Nijmegen, and the 82d had elsewhere done everything it was supposed to do. But overall, the mission failed because the British never took the Arnhem bridge—the objective that would have allowed the British Second Army to swing around to the north and enter Germany.
Chapter 23
Defensive Operations: Road Blocks, Dikes, and the End of the Holland Mission
After we recrossed the Waal on September 30, we moved southeast into the flats between Nijmegen and the German border near Horst. In some places, the river formed the border in this area. I understood our defense depended mainly on two large roadblocks between Horst and the German border, where the road branched into a “Y.” We were still short of company officers at every level. What had happened to Bonnie Wright, our platoon sergeant, and the platoon sergeant of the 1st Platoon, I don’t know. They should have been in charge of the roadblocks, but in their absence, I got the job of commanding one of them, and Sergeant Francisco, my buddy in the 1st Platoon, was in command of the other.
We moved out at night, and put the better part of Company F out on the roadblocks. The ground was flat, and on a clear day we could see a long way to the south, and—even better—to the east, toward the Reichswald along the Dutch-German border. I could just barely make out Francisco’s roadblock, and we could hear any shooting from there. Ours was about a thousand yards in front of what should have been the main line of resistance. I don’t really know what we had back there. I had twelve to fifteen men w
ith me, probably all that was left of the 3d Platoon.
Once we got our foxholes dug pretty deep, movement in daylight was almost impossible. The Germans were very close, in heavy positions in and around houses off to our left front, with listening outposts uncomfortably nearby. Most days, they got nasty with the sniper fire. We often had to pee in tin cans and throw it out of the foxhole.
We were dug in almost in a circular position. Radios were unreliable and noisy, so we used sound-powered phones and field wire. We had no artillery forward observer officer, but we did have an enlisted man, an 81mm mortar platoon FO, observing mortar fire for both roadblocks. It was a nerve-wracking position. The Germans sent patrols almost every night; they got between us and the company CP and cut our telephone wires. The company commander asked for volunteers to restring the wires and bring us out rations and ammunition at night.
We here were introduced to the Nebelwerfer, a multi-barrel, electrically fired, 150mm rocket-launcher mounted on wheels. Its horrifying screeching sound led us to call it the “Screaming Meemie.” It sounded like half a dozen steam locomotives all starting up at the same time, with their wheels slipping on the rails. There were six barrels, and the sound when all those 150mm rockets hit anywhere nearby was deafening. There wasn’t much shrapnel, but there were a hell of a lot of concussions.
Descending from the Clouds Page 22
